


Marked Theme

by Unsentimentalf



Series: The Sherlock/John/Moriarty series [8]
Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-04
Updated: 2011-06-04
Packaged: 2017-10-20 03:04:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/208094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unsentimentalf/pseuds/Unsentimentalf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty knows who's winning</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marked Theme

**Author's Note:**

> We're back in "This Is Going To Be Fun" territory but this is where it gets complicated. Sorry.
> 
> For those who have really been paying more attention than this series deserves, this starts just about at the end of House Guest, somewhere in the middle of Object Lesson, but it is the story of what would have happened if John had been a little less successful in his raid.
> 
> For everyone else; _After a series of increasingly sleazy alcohol and drug fueled encounters between Sherlock, John and Jim Moriarty, Sherlock had now been Moriarty's involuntary house guest for five days. Despite his captivity Sherlock has reasons to be satisfied with the current position-he has forced Moriarty to back down on his attempt at physical coercion, and after an unsuccessful criminal coup-d'etat against him the injured crime lord has started to rely on Sherlock in preference to his possibly suspect minions. The balance of power has shifted between them sufficiently that Sherlock is even contemplating sex. Again._
> 
>  _John, meanwhile, has been imprisoned by Mycroft, who fears that Sherlock had been seriously corrupted and is apparently engaged in rather drastic attempts at damage limitation. When John breaks free and finds that Mycroft had turned all his potential allies against him, he goes looking for Sherlock on his own._

Sherlock Holmes.

Drinking my brandy, in my library, in my house,

And the stupid, brilliant fool thinks that he is winning. I know better.

I flex my back slightly, feeling the burn of the bullet hot and painful. He doesn't imagine what lengths I will go to in order to win. I made a mistake. I Made A Mistake. That burns far more than the bullet did. I am Jim Moriarty and I don't make mistakes. I win. Every time.

God, it was good though. The feel of the leather hitting his bare skin. The line of red. I did that. The outrage in his eyes and in his silence. I did that too. He had nothing. But he finessed. Finessed me, the bastard. The adorable, gorgeous bastard forced me to back down and after that I have to have him, or he will have to die.

How do you make a captive lion forget his pride? With a bullet, of course. Come to me, darling Sherlock. I need you. Look how I depend on you, with my (imaginary) enemies all around me. Patch my wounds, take my gun, guard me while I sleep. I need you. Let me fuck you, my beloved. I need you.

I don't need you, Sherlock Holmes. I don't need anyone. I have no weaknesses. But I will have you tonight and until I tire of you. I sip brandy, watch him do the same, watching me. But I'm not one of the common herd. He can't read me.

My phone vibrates. Murder hums in my mind. I have told them I am not to be disturbed. It buzzes again. Something important. I slide the slim phone into my palm, glance down.

 _1.8_

Oh this is good. Better than good. Perfect. I deserve this. I do. I look up at Sherlock, smile. "One minute."

"Of course." If he guesses, he shows nothing. He doesn't guess.

It hurts to walk. Not important. Two rooms away, I give the instructions.

"Pick him up, chain him up, put him in the cinema room and screen everything Sherlock does and sees." I am back with Sherlock in under a minute.

"Unwanted visitor?"

He's good. He's too good. "Perceptive of you."

"John?"

I can lie to you, Sherlock. I think you've forgotten that. "Missing him, sweet? Sorry, your pet's still in kennels. This is the police being nosy. They'll get the guided tour, leave happy."

He believes me. "Guided tour? Does it include the library?"

Fuck. Now I will have to run around avoiding fictitious policemen and my back hurts.

"You're just too recognisable, my love. We're moving in a few minutes. Not a good time to play hero."

He knows that. It is never a good time to play hero, round here. I kill heroes. Only the morally suspect survive. Sherlock survives. For now.

Less than five minutes and the phone vibrates. "Time to go." I hiss in pain-uncomfortably real-as I stand. He's at my side, hand tight around my elbow, holding me up. Sherlock solicitous- who would have guessed? I would have done; he cossets the nasty little terrier, after all. His people. John. Me? Does he think I'm part of his family now? Am I? No. I'm a parasite, Sherlock. I'll eat you from inside. Hold me up, Sherlock. I'm hurting, and I need you. Need you. Try not to laugh.

I sag slightly into his grip, as if I can't help it. We are going up the back stairs. It hurts. Soon I can rest.

My bedroom. I sleep here. There's a bed. What did you expect, Sherlock? Exotic corruption? Layers of vice? There are only so many ways that my penis can harden, twitch, convulse, shed its load of white dribble, curl up limp, ignored. Sex isn't what, Sherlock. You know that. Sex is who. And I've got you in my bedroom, my darling.

He notices the cameras, of course. "We're being watched."

I strip all hint of glee out of my voice. "Of course. One man watching the live feed, and a recording for later. Surely you're not shy?"

"Cautious." He helps me onto the bed.

"Bit late for that, sweet." I reach out for the remote and the plasma screen brightens. What shall I show them both? Seventeen and a half minutes in. I know all the timings.

"Not without his consent." Sherlock on the screen's voice is breathless and slurred; cocaine and arousal. He stands hard up against the grubby mattresses on the rusting bedstead, his shirt hangs loose, his belt and trousers undone and round his hips. His penis is invisible, buried in the naked man tied face down, but he isn't moving and he doesn't look down. He watches me, standing on the other side of the bed.

I laugh, and watching, I laugh now. "Consent? How disappointingly conventional. And irrelevant. Look at him, Sherlock." I slide the damp heat of my own erection across the man's cheek and he follows it with his tongue, moaning. Sherlock doesn't look then, looks now.

"Do you think he'll forgive you if you tell him he said yes?" I do sneer well. "You know he won't."

"Not without consent," he repeats. The man underneath is wriggling, fretting at the lack of movement. Sherlock's hands tighten around his hips and he starts to thrust, still watching me.

I remember how I want to follow him there, lubricated by his passage. I can see the scalpel on the mattress.

"Fine. I'll get him to say yes first." It won't be difficult. I push my stiff penis between the doctor's willing lips, feeling Sherlock shoving him onto me. Somewhere warm and wet to wait while Sherlock finishes fucking his drugged pet and I get my chance to play. The knife shines, waiting.

I hit pause. "Want to see some more?" This is fun. But Sherlock is frowning at me.

"Trying for what? Guilt? Shame? Regret? I thought you would know better."

Curse. Of course I know better. This is all for poor John, watching in my private cinema, but Sherlock doesn't know that. No wonder he smells a rat. I can't afford another mistake.

"Don't fancy being a porn star, love? Pity; you're a natural. I can cut the live feed, if it's going to affect your performance. But I need something to get me through the lonely nights." I grin at him, distraction. He's still frowning at me.

"What are you trying to do, Moriarty?" Not Jim? This is bad.

I let the slightest of sighs leave my lips. "To seduce you, obviously." Humour and a little frustration; he'll believe that. I stab the power button off. "Shall we start again?"

"Start with what?" He is standing close to the bed. I could reach out and touch him. I reach out and touch him, fingers lingering across his lower back.

"Slide your shirt off for me, pet." Warm and seductive. He snorts.

"That voice isn't going to work on me, Jim." Of course not. But you're distracted now. I'm "Jim" again.

"No?" I turn it matter of fact, amused. "Go on. Take it off anyway."

He laughs, starts on the buttons. I wait, genuinely eager. There. "Let me see."

He turns his back, moves closer to the bed. The line is no more than a faint red mark now. I slide my finger down it, remembering the feel of it, the colour rising fast and sharp as the belt falls away. I have that recorded, of course; have viewed it time after time, frame by frame. Sometimes I masturbate to it. Usually I do.

He laughs. "Thinking of doing it again, Jim?" He knows how much I want to. He teases me. I think about having him tied down, of flogging him until he dies of shock and bloodloss, John Watson screaming raw and helpless as he watches. That would be fun.

"I'll trade." I surprise myself.

"Trade what?" He moves out of my reach. His body is currency now, not casually spent.

"One thing. For one blow." What might he ask me for? What does he want?

"One thing." He sits down on the chair by the dressing table. His eyes keep mine, considering. "Not anything, obviously."

"Something comparable. Ask for too much and I'll laugh."

"Refuse too little and so will I." He's amused now, at this strange negotiation. He trusts me to keep my word. Maybe I will. I want to know what he wants. I want to hit him again.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" My stomach twists; unease? It's novel, this waiting for his price. I think I'm enjoying myself.

He shakes his head. "I'll save that for later." He stands, fingers at his belt. "You've bought this on credit. Dangerous for you. How do you want it?"

Now. I want it now. I force myself to slow, do this properly. We do after all have an audience.

"Give me the belt."

He slides it through the belthooks, tosses it onto the bed in front of me. I resist the temptation to touch it. Not yet.

"Strip."

That gets another amused smile. He drops his clothes around him. He is, very slightly, aroused. I am achingly hard. He knows, of course.

I undo my own belt, unzip my trousers, push myself up to sit on the side of the bed, pull off the rest of my clothes. Sherlock watches, blood flushing out his growing erection.

I pick up the belt, run it through my hands, rub it across my penis. I spit on my other hand; I want to climax with the blow. Sherlock snorts, comes forward, kneels on the rug and bends forward to put his head between my thighs. His hot tongue licks over the head of my erection; I look down on the long length of his spine, the faint red line. My hand tightens around the leather.

No-one else understands me like Sherlock. A second's sadness at the thought, because I'm going to kill him someday. Not today, though. Not while he takes me in his mouth, finds a rhythm, sucking hard and I feel climax building as I draw the belt across his bare back, waiting.

Near, near, near...I pull the belt up, over my head. Near. Nearer. Now. The leather slams down, and Sherlock jerks, crying out, and I come in a blaze of pleasure, belt still wrapped tight around my fist. He licks me gently through the remnants of orgasm, the stripe on his back raw and crimson and I tell him that I love him and I'm not even lying right now.

Back on his heels and up. His breathing is harsh; he's in pain. Neither of us will sleep on our backs tonight, if we sleep at all. I am tempted to offer to tend his wound, as he did mine. But I like it as it is; a long raised welt from shoulder to waist, bleeding in places where the edge of the belt cut him. I don't want it soothed or hidden. I like seeing him hurting. I like his penis limp again, still reddened. I'm remarkably happy.

Sherlock smiles too, thinly, cold. He doesn't love me back. He is not a masochist. That pleases me too. "Now you owe me, Jim Moriarty. Whether or not you ever intended to pay."

He is sure of himself. So am I. I want to know what he wants. I might even give it to him. That might be fun.

"Are you going to claim it now, sweet?"

"Not yet."

"In that case I'm going to sleep." I am exhausted. I will sleep well. "Coming to join me, pet?" This bed I've never shared. Never had sex with another person in. Sherlock is always different. Under my skin? Possibly. Easily excised, with a sharp enough knife.

I throw back the covers and he climbs into bed with me with no hesitation. We lie on our sides, facing each other. He moves forward, torso brushing mine. He is becoming hard again. Mouth on mine, tongue thrusting. I have no interest in reciprocating; I'm done for tonight.

He pulls away, drops a hand between our bodies, starts to masturbate, fast and efficient. Not need. Not lust. He wants his body sated, so it won't distract him while he lies beside me. Wise caution. His breathing barely changes but while I am still contemplating the pros and cons of getting involved he stiffens for a second, relaxes, smears the contents of his fist on the outside of the bed covers. My bed covers. Very annoying.

"Filthy beast. I ought to make you change the sheets."

"Make me?" He sounds sleepy now. "Not if you want sex in the morning."

I want to beat him, burn him, see the helplessness in his eyes. I push him onto his sore back, climb on top of him and bite his neck, hard. He doesn't struggle. This is as far as I can go right now. Too far? I switch to nuzzling at the angle of his neck and chin, murmuring in his ear, "Very well. You're still a filthy beast." And, because I can't resist it, "I really don't know how John puts up with you."

Then I roll over, my abused back to him, flick the light switch off and close my eyes.

I wake once in the night. Sherlock is asleep, facing away from me, his breathing steady. I place my palm on the welt, feeling the heat of it, and he shifts slightly, settles again. I pull my phone from under the pillow, send a text. _Report_

 _Distressed. Unhurt._

Excellent. _Keep him clean and fed_ I want John Watson worrying about Sherlock, not himself. Not yet. Then I erase all the texts and set the key lock, and fall back to sleep.

When I wake again it's morning and Sherlock is standing naked at the window, the line down his back glowing scarlet. He turns and I see my phone in his hand.

"Got past the lock yet, pet?"

"I could make a 999 call with it locked."

Of course he could. But he hasn't.

He tosses the phone to me. Why didn't he? Because his brother will be listening in.Mycroft, who taps phonelines, who monitors emergency services, who kidnaps flatmates. Sherlock won't cede control of the situation to his brother, not while Sherlock still thinks he's winning. This is seriously funny. I don't laugh.

I turn the lock off, check the texts sent. Nothing. The call log. Nothing. Sherlock watches, silent. I check with my switchboard.

"Calls from this phone, last twelve hours."

"None."

"Texts."

Brief pause. "Five."

"Times."

"21.27, 21.28, 2.46, 2.47. 7.03."

Four minutes ago.

Oh Sherlock. I mouth at him, "Bad boy." Did you think I'd believe that a few numbers could keep you out? "Patch that last one back."

A few seconds and it's there. In a hurry; not his usual style;

 _Inspgl.Prvt.Jw@8n12fb.Dntrstmh.Sh_

I laugh at that. "You should have called the cavalry here."

"Mycroft's more dangerous than you."

Bitch. That hurts. I'll enjoy showing Sherlock that he's wrong. John escaped Mycroft Holmes unhurt. He won't escape me. I set the switchboard to tracking the number. They won't get anything useful from it.

Sherlock is sitting naked on the dressing table, all long legs and satisfaction. I resist the temptation to tell him why he's achieved nothing. "Come back to bed."

He comes back to bed. I wrap myself around his cool skin and we kiss, face to face, slow for once, languid. I don't need to touch the mark I made last night. Seeing it is enough.

We don't stay slow for long. At some point in this writhing and panting, mouthing and fingering there are decisions to be made. We don't agree. I want his face in the pillows, his knees to his chest so that I can use tongue, teeth and nails on that raw red line as I take my time riding his surprisingly virginal ass to completion. He wants me on my agonisingly painful back, thighs apart so he can watch my face while fucking me hard and fast. I half expect him to call in his debt, but he doesn't. Instead we argue in low voices.

"I don't do that."

"You haven't tried." I am not used to being thwarted in sex. My partners put a great deal of effort into anticipating my desires. "Be nice, Sherlock."

"No." He smiles at me. It is not a nice smile. "Last time we penetrated you, you seemed to enjoy it well enough."

I dislike that "we" intensely. Watson has already been repaid, sex and blood. He's got more of both coming. I hold grudges.

I hiss at Sherlock, "You've had your turn. Mine now."

"I thought you didn't take turns. I certainly don't."

Impasse. Infuriating.

Leverage. I need more leverage. Either that or chains. Rape is always an option, if a sub-optimal one. First however we'll try drugs.

"Coffee." I stretch out for my phone, and he runs still-cool hands in parallel up my ribcage, thumbs pressing into my shoulder joints. How does he stay so cold? The fingers I've closed around his tangled pubic hair are sticky with sweat.

"Coffee" he agrees. I can hear the desire in his voice.

"Coffee," I instruct down the phone. "Knock once and wait outside the door."

Sherlock runs his hands back down to my hips, opens his eyes. "I am not prostituting myself for a mug of coffee," he announces. "We had an agreement."

"We agreed that you would get coffee when you were sociable. Right now I want you face down rear up sociable." I drop my voice. I can fake reasonable. "A few minutes discomfort, at most. You might just have some fun. And hot fresh coffee."

He's wavering. He knows impasses are dangerous for him. He can't afford to frustrate me too far. And he needs that caffeine. "Coffee and I both come first."

Whore. The cheapest of whores. What's the price of a cup of coffee? I don't sneer, except inside. He was looking for an excuse. Coffee would do.

"On your knees, sugar, and you'll get both." I'm taming him, after all. I'm going to give him a memorably good time. Mine to give. Then I'll have my fun.

I don't have lubricant in here; this is just my bedroom. When I get back with what I need the coffee is outside the door and he's still kneeling on the carpet, his eyes bright and curious.

I get Tel to pour the coffee and I place Sherlock's down on the floor a long way in front of him. Then I sip mine, black, enjoying the rich taste.

"Hot," Sherlock reminds me. I did say hot. I walk round behind him, kneel down on his outstretched calves.

"Take it."

I have calculated it right; he needs to be full length on the floor to grasp the handle. I like the view from up here; when he starts to pull himself up again I rest my hot mug between his shoulder blades and he keeps still. The base of the porcelain mug will cause pain but spilt black coffee will scald.

Sherlock pulls his mug towards him, takes a couple of gulps, still flat on the floor. Hurting him is too much fun, too hard to stop. I lift my mug again, drink, put it down beside me, admiring the ring it has left on Sherlock's skin, nearly as red as the weal. The ring will fade much faster, though. A pity.

He has gulped down his coffee uncomfortably fast, in case I take it from him.

"Would you like some more?"

"Please." Begging, sweet? I like that. I like how much he wants it. I gesture to Tel, standing silent by the door, and Sherlock's mug is refilled. Enough; I send the man away.

Sherlock has raised himself on one elbow now to drink. I push his thighs apart, kneel between them. Pale, muscled, scarlet-marked back, unscarred buttocks, testicles that tighten as I wrap my fingers around them and tug. I reach under him, find his erection is pushed sideways along the carpet.

More room. I retrieve a couple of pillows. "Up". Better. I have not made a study of this: I've had no need, but many people have been desperately eager to please me. Anything they can do, I can undoubtedly do better.

Sherlock seems to think so. He hums, slow, deep, pleased, as I caress him. His own hands are wrapped around the half full mug; he takes both his pleasures at once. I run a finger down between his buttocks and he shivers, tilts his pelvis upwards. For someone who doesn't do this he takes a lubricated finger with a great deal of enthusiasm. It's not the act that's unpleasant, is it, Sherlock? We just like to keep the power. Having agreed, having lost it, no gain to resisting.

We have a certain conflict of interest here, and I'm on top. I remove my finger, insert a wand no thicker than the digit it replaces, shift my attention back to his twitching erection. When he's tensed and very near orgasm I flick the powerful vibrator on without warning and he jerks uncontrollably into my hand for a few seconds, then ejaculates, gasping.

"Face down, rear up," I remind him, slapping away a hand that has appeared.

"You could take that thing out first." He's got tears in his eyes; I can hear it in his voice. Sensitive, post orgasm. I can use that.

"When you're where I want you."

Sherlock moves; face down, arse invitingly high in the air, still humming mechanically. There are other things I own that I could use on him. I am tempted, but no. This is intended to bind him closer to me, not just to give me pleasure. Old fashioned methods this morning.

He's still satisfyingly tight. Half a day old scabs come off easily under my nails and his back's bleeding again. Lovely. I draw the vibrator across his spine, across the long bloody weal, feel the slight shudder, do it again. I'm not damaging him, just playing. He knows the difference; he doesn't like it but he doesn't protest. He believes that he understands the reasons for my restraint. He doesn't.

Enjoying the sight of this, Johnny boy? He won't let you do this, ever. This is what I can give him that you can't; a competition that he can lose. You'll never do more than trail in his wake, sunshine; that puts you underneath both of us. Like you were five days ago.

The thought of the man watching is almost as enthralling as the feel of the man below. I decide I'm done with playing. My nails dig into somewhere around his kidneys as I accelerate roughly. Yes, that's good. Good, good, good. Every thrust pulses a tiny amount of blood from the cuts on his back and I smear it across his spine with a fast swipe of fingers, bring them to my mouth to lick. Everything is good. Almost everything.

"Talk to me, Sherlock. Tell me what you're thinking." What goes through that brilliant head of yours while you're being fucked for the first time by your arch nemesis?

His voice is muffled by the pillow but steady. "I'm deciding on the thing you're going to give me."

Of course he is. Battered flesh, raw nerve endings, aren't worthy of further analysis. The next round of the game is. Suddenly I feel very alone up here. I don't like that feeling. It doesn't stop me from coming hard, deep inside him but it certainly takes some of the shine off it. I'm pissed off, now.

I won't let him know. I sit back against the side of the bed, wait for him. Soon enough he rolls onto his side then sits up against the wall, an arms-length away, legs crossed. If his back or rear are tender he doesn't show it. Instead he tips his head back against the wall, closes his eyes, apparently lost in his own thoughts.

"There are things that I could make you do," he starts eventually, deep and calm, as if the last few minutes have never happened, "but none of them has more than transistory appeal. I've no intention of wasting my advantage as you did."

He doesn't bother to look at me, yet.

"More practically, I imagine that there are a great many things that Jim Moriarty can acquire easily. More easily, in many cases, than I could. Things of value to me. I did consider several of those."

He stretches his legs out, relaxed. He may surprise me. That would be interesting.

"But I'm inclined to impatience this morning. I'm not going to put you to any trouble on my account. I'm going to name something you can hand over right now."

His eyes are still closed but his tone hardens to granite.

"I want John Watson. Unharmed."

Fuck. "Your brother has him." The lie is reflexive and I regret it immediately.

Sherlock opens his eyes, drips derision. "Don't embarrass yourself. I know he's here."

"How do you know?" Who has betrayed me? Someone while I slept? Tel? The switchboard operator? I'll kill everyone here if I have to.

He laughs, reading me far too well. "Observation, Jim. That's all it took. That and your schoolboy errors. Give him to me."

"What errors?" I've made none that mattered. I must have been betrayed.

"Come on, Jim. You were obviously lying about the police. Supposedly they were searching the whole house, but you didn't think to move me out until I prompted you. They hadn't searched upstairs; no-one had been in your room since your cleaner had left smudges of polish on the door handle. And you didn't check with your people if they had left, or what they had said; you just performed your sadistic little sex act and went to sleep."

It almost sounded as if he was right. Which was wrong. Had to be wrong. He was in his stride now, showing off. "You reacted to that text far too fast to have read more than a couple of words, and you knew almost immediately what you were going to do, so something anticipated and prepared for. Something to do with me, obviously, but you never got to the punchline. Not like you, that. So something ongoing.

He smiled. "You had a habit of glancing up at a camera when you're thinking. From last night you stopped doing it; now you look out of the window or at the door instead. So the cameras have become significant. When you apparently wasted time showing me that recording, the reason became clear."

He's so pleased with himself. I think I may kill him sooner than I'd planned. Today seems good. This morning.

"The text confirmed my deduction. John Watson's an essential part of your plans for me, and he knows this location; inconceivable that you'd do nothing at all in response to an attempt to free him, unless you knew it was irrelevant. So. Are you going to give me this one thing that you promised?"

His logic is impeccable. I hate him. Time to play nasty. I glance up to the nearest camera. "Bring him up." Then to Sherlock, "I've got a better idea. How about I let my boys loose on him and you can see what sadistic little sex acts really look like? He's tough; I imagine he'll last quite a long time. Then you can have the body, if you still want him."

"I thought you might take that attitude." He doesn't seem perturbed, though he must know I'll do it. I'm missing something.

What am I missing? What? I glare at him, furious, thinking. What has he done that I haven't factored in?

The text of course. Not a message to break John out, because Sherlock knew he wasn't there. Just a feint? Sherlock wouldn't waste that sort of opportunity, not with an outside line.

"Who was it sent to?"

"So many questions." He is crowing now. "You claim to be a genius. Work it out."

Can't I just rip it out of him? I could. I don't need to. Easy enough to find the answer. I watch him as I think.

Code. Unlikely that he shares a code with anyone complex and subtle enough to allow for much meaning in a message that specific. An address, for instance. So no-one should turn up here.

A comfortable enough conclusion, but my gut tells me to think again, because I have John Watson in my power and Sherlock still crows.

Who knows the way here? Only the pet, who came sniffing after his master and got collared. Who supposedly escaped from Mycroft Holmes. Unlikely. The dog let loose, to lead him here.

In that case, why no rescue? And why the text?

Storming this building is a dangerous business. Hostages could die. Mycroft might wait for something. Some communication. Which he had. The brothers not so estranged as they pretended?

Up at the camera, realise that my observer is probably half way through bringing Watson up. Phone then, fast. I scrabble towards my clothes, but Sherlock is there before me. I look into the business end of my gun, and laugh.

"You could have done that days ago, my sweet. Odds are still way against you getting out alive."

Sherlock is on his feet, stark naked, and the gun doesn't waver.

"I have to concur with that assessment. Fortunately, however, I don't need to get out. I just need to keep an eye on the clock."

Oh. Shit. I glance at the timer on the recorder just as it ticks over to 08.03.

The house shakes to a huge explosion, then another. Then gunfire. My phone buzzes, way off on the floor.

"One hour," he says. "I told Mycroft that by the end of one hour we'd be on the top floor and safe." He smiles, brilliantly. "I think my choreography was rather good. Don't you?"

I think red, red murder.

The gun doesn't twitch, even when the bedroom door is kicked open behind me. "Glad you could join us."

"You did say that you wanted me." John Watson's voice is rather hoarse. "Not a request I'm ever likely to turn down. Have you considered just shooting him in the head?"

"No need. By the time he works out just how thoroughly he's been played, he'll be ready to shoot himself. Isn't that right, Jim?"

I look round at the pet. He looks more than a little bit beaten up and there are cuffs round his ankles but he's still going. He got away from my people. My people who sound as if they are being massacred right now. Really the least of my problems. I'm the only irreplaceable one.

Isn't that right, Sherlock?

"Weren't you watching?" I hiss. "He has more fun without you. We both do."

Watson glares back at me. "I might not be a genius, but I am a soldier. I can recognise diversionary tactics when I see them. He never bought your crap, Moriarty, not for a minute."

"Unfortunately not true," Sherlock interjects. "You're a remarkable actor, after all, and the bullet wound was real. But your rather deranged obsession with damaging my back made me wonder if the similarity in our injuries could really be coincidence. And you neglected follow-through, again.You demanded half a dozen reports after the coup but not one of them ever arrived."

He sighed, sounding genuinely regretful. "It was clear by last night that the progress I had thought I'd achieved by staying was illusory. By then I knew you were holding John, and unlike me he was in very real danger from your whims. Time to leave. Mycroft could be counted on to oblige."

"Take the gun."

I am up on my knees before I realise who he is talking to. Embarrassing. John takes the weapon with far too much enthusiasm and Sherlock starts to dress.

I'd had him in my grasp for a while, then; that was no consolation at all. The guns are silent now. I don't have long. I have no plan. I have no resources. I have no clothes. I am not defeated

"I still owe you something, Sherlock. You've got your little dog back. What else are you going to ask for?"

I do not like his laugh. "Sorry, Jim. I've won. Not interested in a rematch. There will be new opponents out there."

He's lying. Obviously. We lie to each other all the time, Sherlock and I. It's all part of the game.

There are men with handcuffs now. Guns and handcuffs. I let them take me, unresisting. Arrest doesn't matter. My people will find me. Sherlock will find me soon enough, when he's ready to play again. I look round for a parting shot but he is bent over John Watson's chained legs, talking to him quietly, and he doesn't look up. That doesn't matter either. He needs me too much to end things this way.

They push me into my library. Tel is dead, with an arm missing, on my rug; he will stain it. The windows are blown out, there is glass everywhere. It doesn't matter. I won't be returning here.

"No, you won't." I have seen photographs, video clips of Mycroft Holmes. He is, if anything, even less imposing than those made him appear. He regards me without expression. I regard him with disdain. He is a poor substitute for Sherlock in every way; sex, violence, competition.

"i won't deal with you."

"No," he agrees.

The implication is obvious, but he won't go through with it. He knows my dead man's switches exist. He knows that Sherlock would not tolerate my death. There are too many men here to witness assassination. This man just wants my secrets and he will not have them. I smile.

"Don't waste your time, Mycroft. This is your brother's game, not yours."

He shakes his head. "Sherlock's done with you."

"He'll come back. You know as well as I do he won't stay away for long."

"You think so?" He tilts his head, considering me. "That would seem to make this all the more necessary."

Police sirens wail around the wreck of my home. Mycroft frowns. "I'm afraid I don't have any more time but I did want to meet you in person, Jim. You are quite remarkable. The judicial system will undoubtedly fail to hold onto you. I have to set that against the large number of people who might die as a result of your failsafes."

He sighs. "Fortunately, or unfortunately, that kind of risk analysis is something that I have to deal with on a regular basis in my line of work. Goodbye."

He picks up his furled umbrella and walks out of the room. Men stand in the doorway, at the open windows. Someone is unchaining my feet and hands. They step away and I face the two upraised guns. This is wrong; this is not the end of it, not here among no-one whose face I know. He can't be far above me; it is not too late, he can come down, stop this, but in the instant that I call out for him I see the gunmen move and it is too late after all.


End file.
